


An End of Dying

by kireteiru



Series: Variations on a Theme [3]
Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21786634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: Semi-AU. Frodo, Sam, and Gollum have an unexpected encounter in the Morgul Vale.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Talion (Shadow of Mordor), Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Shelob (Tolkien) & Talion (Shadow of Mordor)
Series: Variations on a Theme [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1485791
Comments: 10
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

The Morgul Vale was not empty.

There was a massive creature, red as blood, lying curled up by the side of the Morgul Road at the foot of the Stairs of Cirith Ungol. It looked something like the dragons from Bilbo’s stories, only smaller, but even so it was big enough to dwarf the hobbits and Gollum together.

It also didn’t seem to be affected by the magic of the elven cloaks. It spotted them quickly and lifted its head, staring right at them with fiery gold eyes. The creature watched them approach on the road but otherwise didn’t move, ignoring Gollum’s quiet hisses of “nasty, tricksy Ranger’s flying _beast_ , still following him around! Yes, yes, fell into darkness he did, Precious, yes, years ago but still she follows! _Gollum, gollum!_ ”

He spat at it - _her,_ and that she did _not_ ignore. Her head snapped around fast as lightning, a snarl curling her lips off serrated fangs. Gollum yelped and scampered away to hide behind a boulder, peering over the top with eyes wide with fright.

Frodo and Sam passed more respectfully, keeping their eyes lowered, and the drake left them alone. “Sméagol,” Frodo asked softly as they circled the creature to the stair behind her, “You know this one?”

“Know her? Yes, Master, yes - the Dreadful Woman.” Gollum came out from behind the boulder and gave them a nasty grin. “Tricksy Ranger used to ride her, yes, years ago - before he _Fell_ , and joined the Nine.”

The hobbits inhaled sharply.

“Now he doesn't ride her anymore, no, no, rides horses and Fellbeastses and serves the _Eye_ , but still she follows him wherever he goes.” He eyed the drake. “If she is here, nasty Ranger can’t be far. Must hurry, Master!” He scurried up the stairs ahead of the hobbits.

Frodo and Sam darted after him and scrambled up the first few dozen stairs, all of them perilously steep - when the ground rolled unexpectedly under them. Frodo slipped from the stairs, but it was Sam who got the worst of it: Frodo knocked him loose as well and landed half on top of him, even as his pack and cloak were pinned in place by heavy debris that fell with them.

“Hobbitses!” Gollum yelped and scrambled back down to help them, “Must hurry, hobbitses! Mustn’t linger! - Oh no!”

The glow of Minas Morgul flared in response to some unheard command, sickly green energy spiraling skyward with the howl of high winds, and a Fellbeast climbed up out of the city to cling to the outer wall, one of the Nine on its back. The beast roared, the sound echoing through the valley, and the city gates began to creak open.

The hobbits panicked - but then deeper darkness descended. The Ranger’s drake had moved to lie further back from the road, now level with them, and had covered them with one great red wing.

An army of Uruks left the city, and Frodo used the cover of the noise to free Sam, straining to move the rocks off his pack and cloak. Then both hobbits wrapped themselves tight in their cloaks and peered out from under the wing.

Row after row of Uruks marched past in a seemingly endless column, carrying banners and armor and weapons for war. The hobbits and drake watched them pass - until one of the orcs threw something heavy at the Dreadful Woman. It struck her jaw, hard enough that her head jerked to one side, and she snarled even worse than before, preparing to rise even as her fire flared in her chest.

The scream of a Nazgûl stopped her. A Fellbeast plunged out of the darkness and snatched the orc up in its claws, then ripped the creature to shreds. The remains fell in chunks into the Morgulduin even as the Ringwraith on its back screamed again, so full of _wrath_ that the hobbits were paralyzed by fear.

He brought his Fellbeast down to land not far from the drake. He was different than the others, they saw. Though he too wore black, it was not long robes like the others; instead he wore plate armor, dark and fell, with a hooded mantle over it, its edges tattered and torn. His sword was different as well, belted together with a dagger over his back rather than at his waist.

The Fellbeast on the city walls took flight and swooped overhead so its Nazgûl could scream angrily at his fellow. The armored Nazgûl nearly _ripped_ his sword from its sheath and _shrieked_ at the other, just as wrathful as before, and the Dreadful Woman hissed in tandem, rolling into a growl so deep that Frodo felt it vibrate in his chest.

The other Ringwraith seemed to think better of retaliating for a single orc and guided his Fellbeast away, but the armored Nazgûl did not relax until he was a speck in the distance and the last of the orcs had scurried past. Only then did he resheathe his sword and look to the drake.

But then he tensed, and the hobbits heard sniffing under the dark hood. They shuddered and held each other tight even as Gollum hissed, “Nasty, tricksy Ranger.”

He fell silent when the Nazgûl swung down from the saddle, the Fellbeast shying away from the drake a little. Yet the Ranger walked over to them without fear and slowly circled the drake, sniffing intently and sometimes hissing softly.

Though it was already heavy, the Ring grew heavier still around Frodo’s neck, as if it was being pulled toward the Nazgûl by some unseen force. He drew his cloak up to cover his mouth, to muffle his frightened panting as the Nazgûl stopped in front of them.

The Ranger was close, so close that it seemed like Frodo only needed to reach out a hand to touch his armored boots. Yet the hobbit stayed where he was, sweating and shaking, even as the Dreadful Woman’s head snaked around.

She scented the wraith, who tilted his unseen head up to look at her. Then she exhaled on him, nostrils flaring, and leaned forward to nuzzle him, a low purr starting deep in her chest. Slowly, jerkily, like he didn’t know what he was doing, the Ranger lifted a hand to touch her head - just a light press of armored fingers against her jaw, unexpectedly soft and gentle.

The Dreadful Woman’s purring increased in volume.

At last, the drake pulled back and nudged the Ringwraith toward the Fellbeast. He took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at her. She nudged him again, and at last he went. He mounted up and looked back one last time, then took flight and winged away after the orcs and the other wraith.

When he was gone, the drake got up, stretched, and watched Gollum and the hobbits resume their climb. After a few minutes, she too took to the air and flew after the Ranger.

* * *

“I wonder what happened to him,” Frodo said later, after everything, “The Ranger. Do you think he perished with the others?”

“I don’t rightly know, Mr. Frodo,” Sam answered, “but I almost hope he didn’t. The way Gollum spoke’a him makes me think he mighta been a good man before everything. An’ if he _did_ die - well, I hope he got to see the sun again, before the end.” He tilted his head back to bask in the warm rays. “After all that dark and cold, there’s nothing quite like it.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in Mordor:

“TALION! _GET_ SOME _REST!_ ”

**“I CAN SLEEP WHEN I’M _DEAD_ , IDRIL!”**

“YOU’RE _GONNA_ BE DEAD IN A SECOND!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thought this fic was finished? Yeah, so did I.

All at once, his mind was suddenly clear. The veil of shadow that had blinded his eyes, confused his thoughts, was lifted - just in time for him to hit the ground. Talion _shrieked_ in pain, but his body held together despite the power of the impact; he must have fallen from a great height, but he had the fading echoes of a Nazgûl’s power, which was enough to save him. Still, it _fucking hurt!_

His fellbeast hit the ground not too far away, already dead, its ribcage crushed by… _something_. Talion rolled onto his stomach and looked up just in time to see the Great Eye contract to a point, and then explode.

That was it then. Sauron had been defeated.

He slumped to the ash below, even as he felt blood start to trickle from his throat once more. But as he did so, he heard metal hit the ground nearby with a familiar clang.

A _very_ familiar clang.

_All at once, he was back in the Crack of Doom, his hands moving at another’s direction. With Celebrimbor’s knowledge and skill, the New Ring to challenge Sauron took shape and settled, its strength as firm and deep as the pillars of the earth itself. But though the mountain burned around them, the Ring was cold, like ice, and seemed to suck in the heat without ever changing its own temperature._

There it was again. A second clang, closer this time.

_This time he was back atop the Black Tower. His drake, Deldúath, was perched on one of the spikes that ringed the edge of the platform at the very summit, right under the Eye. It watched as he approached and looked up at it for a moment, searching for any sign of Celebrimbor. Yet there was nothing, nothing he could discern at least, so he turned away._

_Eltariel lay mostly unconscious at the edge of the overlook. She was missing two fingers, which he found nearby - but there was no sign of the New Ring, and he dared not linger long to search._

A third, closer still.

 _Shelob’s tunnels. The Spider was smiling enigmatically as always. “There is no such thing as coincidence in this world,” she had said sixty years ago, when he told her what had happened atop the Black Tower, “Everything happens for a reason, even if we don’t know what that reason is. Eru does not mandate for us to know the reasons behind all things - but this I do know. Like the One Ring, the New Ring_ will _resurface - when its time comes.”_

A fourth and final clang. The New Ring hit the ground with the weight of the whole world behind it. Talion looked up - and there it was, barely a body-length away, almost glowing silver amidst Mordor’s dull gray ash and dust.

A voice, ancient and ageless, heavy with knowledge and grief as old as the world.

_Death is not your destiny today, Talion Wind-Rider._

The Nazgûl gasped, choked, and threw out a hand.

The script on the New Ring flared bright blue, and it came to him at once, slamming down on his finger and shattering what remained of Isildur’s Ring in the process. His wounds were wiped away in the blink of an eye, fresh air filling his lungs, and he staggered to his feet, looking frantically around.

Mount Doom was erupting perilously close - he could feel the heat even through his cold armor, and he threw himself into an Elven Sprint, racing away from the lava flow.

But he didn't get very far before the ground rolled with an earthquake. The earth split in front of him, collapsed; Gorgoroth was honeycombed with tunnels and caverns from many thousands of years of mining metals for weapons and armor, and the roofs of the deep caves fell in, collapsing one atop another before they vanished in great clouds of dust and debris.

Talion’s mind immediately went to the slaves. Who knew how many Men and Orcs had been down there in chains - free now, but no less dead for it. But no, there was no time; the lava flow from Doom was close - too close. He raced along the cliff edge and _whistled_ , putting power into it for the first time in nearly a decade. He dimly remembered, through the dark veil, being _followed_ -

A roar answered his hopes, and he threw himself into the air, catching one of the saddle’s handles just in time.

The earth fell away below him, right as magma rolled over the spot where he’d been standing, spilling down into the pits below, but his attention was on what was above him now. **_“Sweetheart!”_** he cried, and Daerwen _shrieked_ in triumph. She briefly slowed her flight to let him flip up onto her back, but once he was settled in the saddle, she pulled her wings in again, diving to get back some speed and send them streaking away from Doom.

Yet as they went, Talion looked back, scanning the horizon for a flash of silver-blue.

But there was nothing.

* * *

**“Shelob! You’re injured!”**

The Spider Queen laughed softly as Talion jogged up to her, concerned but unsure if she would allow him to touch. She was in human form, or something very close to it, and her middle was wrapped tight in webbing like a bandage. “Peace, Talion,” she said, waving him off, “I am close to healed, anyway. It was a small but necessary wound.”

The Nazgûl was not reassured and let her know as much with a sharp look, but allowed his hands to be batted away.

“More importantly,” she continued, “I am pleased to see you back with us. You’ve been missed.”

He staggered under a sudden weight, and whipped around to find that one of her brood - larger now, but still familiar - had pounced on him. He couldn't help but laugh, and took a moment to wrestle with the spider in question, who was now the size of a caragor. When the spider was satisfied with its greeting and settled next to him, he looked back up to its mother. **“My people?”**

“South,” she answered, “In Núrn, for the most part. The southern half of the Mountains of Shadow, or so some messengers told me.”

 **“Good hunting for the drakes, in the forests of southern Ithilien,”** Talion said automatically, **“and Núrn is good for growing crops for people and other animals.”**

Shelob smiled a little bit at that. “Go, Gravewalker, Wind-Rider. Your people await your return.”

Talion almost did - but then he paused and turned back. **“What about you? What will you do now?”**

That earned him another soft laugh. “I hated Sauron with all of my being, but he was what kept these tunnels safe for me and my brood. Now that he is gone, there is no place for us here. We will head east and south, into Rhûn and the Hither Lands, where shadows still linger.”

 **“ _Pruzah wundunne_ ,”** said the wraith.

Shelob blinked at him, then laughed for real. “The number of people who would say _safe travels_ to me are very few indeed. Even if only for that reason alone, you have been worth knowing. Be well, Talion. For as long as we endure, we will remember you.”

Before he could say anything in reply, she and her brood slipped away.

* * *

Daerwen knew where to go, so he let her fly as she would, the reins only loosely held in one armored hand. He kept looking back north, searching for any sign of Celebrimbor, but if the Elf had survived the fall of the Black Tower, he didn't seek the Ringwraith out. Just as well, perhaps; Talion still wasn't sure how he would react if the other _did_ appear.

Then _something_ hit him, made him _gasp_ and hunch in on himself and clutch at Daerwen’s saddle to stop from falling out of it. He looked around frantically for an attack that he hadn't sensed - but then he shielded his eyes and looked up.

The sun shone warmly down from overhead, and bit by bit he relaxed into its light and heat, feeling it loosen the last of the dark threads binding him. He’d almost forgotten it existed, having been removed from its world for decades; even before he fell, shadows had been pulled close to him by Isildur’s Ring and darkened his eyes and life. The clouds over Gorgoroth were slowly dispersing, but the drake had flown free of them, over the Maegond Spur of the Mountains of Shadow and into Núrn.

Daerwen squawked in concern, but he patted her side and said, **“I’m all right, sweetheart.”**

After a moment, she purred, apparently satisfied, and angled west into the southern Mountains of Shadow.

There was a fortress of stone and wood and packed earth, protecting the eastern end of a wide valley, which opened up into several more further in the mountains. It was simple - none of the sometimes ornate trappings of any of Mordor’s Orc-tribes - but strong, and even from such a height he could see Orcs and Men and even one or two dwarves and Avari, the “Dark” Elves of the Forest of Carnán, on the walls and working within. He heard the shout even as the drake started circling down for a landing inside.

 _“Daerwen!”_ The voice echoed off the mountains like a trumpet, clear and strong. Whoever it was, they could sound the alarm for the entire valley in a few seconds. Talion rose up onto his knees and pushed back his hood so his face could be seen by the Elves or anyone with a spyglass.

There was an almost shocked silence, followed by, _“ TALION?!”_

The fortress and even the local homesteads came alive in an instant, suddenly swarming with people. Yet a space was cleared in the central courtyard, and Daerwen landed easily on the rough cobbles, then lowered herself all the way to the ground so he could slip off her back.

At once, he was buried in people crying and cheering and hugging him tight before being pulled along to the next person. He couldn't help but laugh - the first time in a good long while - and returned the embraces and back slaps and greetings and threats, until -

“ _Where is he?!_ ”

He knew that voice, and turned even as the crowd parted. **“Idril.”**

She was there, only a little older than he remembered. Even though she was one of the blood of Númenor and so aged slower than most Men, it couldn't have been _that_ long since he Fell. Tears gathered in her eyes, and she gasped, “ _Ada!_ ” and nearly flew into his arms.

Talion held her just as tight, and felt a faint dampness against his neck. **“It’s done,”** he told her - and everyone else, **“The One Ring has been destroyed, and Barad-dûr thrown down - Sauron is defeated, once and for all.”**

That brought a fresh wave of cheers, but Idril pulled back to wipe her eyes, then looked into his own. “But there’s something else, isn't there?”

 **“...the fall was not easy, or quiet,”** he said at last, **“Gorgoroth has been _devastated_ \- Doom has erupted, and the mines collapsed. I don't know how many survived, or what state they're in.”**

“Then it seems like we still have work to do,” said Idril, before she turned to start giving out orders.


	3. Chapter 3

Frodo wasn't quite sure what was happening. He’d been sensing _something_ approaching for some hours, and when he’d finally brought it to the others’ attention, Gandalf grew alarmed and sent the palace into a flurry of activity. It had been active already, preparing for Aragorn’s coronation, but now there were guards going to the still half-ruined walls.

And then the first scouts reported back, and the activity turned to confusion at the reports. The hobbits managed to eavesdrop and heard that there was a single _strange_ Orc on the road to the city, riding an equally strange Warg-like beast and leading a string of almost a hundred horses - from Rohan, by the looks of them.

Frodo didn't know how he managed to convince Merry and Pippin to get him and Sam up on the walls with them and Aragorn and the rest of the Fellowship, but he did, and they were when the Orc finally drew near.

The Orc _was_ strange, strange and fell; here, at last, was what he’d been sensing. It wore no weapons, only light armor with the orange Eye of Sauron struck through with a mark of blue, replaced by a hand in the same color, and a - fire drake? - in red. The Orc’s eyes glowed green. “Necromancy,” Gandalf murmured, “That Orc is dead, but I do not know who controls it.”

When it was in bowshot of the wall, the Orc lifted the broken shaft of a spear. A banner of white fluttered from the end. **“I have not come to fight,”** the Orc rasped, its voice warped by the dark magic that had called it back from the grave, **“but to parley with the kings of Gondor and Rohan, if they will hear me.”**

Aragorn and Éomer exchanged glances over the hobbits’ heads, then nodded to Gandalf. The wizard leaned forward and said, “We are listening! With whom do we speak?”

 **“Wise though you are, I doubt even you will know my name, Mithrandir,”** the Orc replied, **“for I was no one even before I Fell. Still, some among you might know me by the title** **_Gravewalker_** **.”**

 _That_ caused a stir, especially amongst the Rangers of Ithilien by Faramir’s side. At the Steward’s direction, one of them leaned in and said to Aragorn, “If he is who he says he is, then there is no need to fear, my lord. Before he Fell into darkness, the Wind-Rider - that is, the Gravewalker - was a friend to Gondor and gave aid to us, though in secret.”

Gandalf hummed, then said, “Very well. Why have you come?”

 **“I am the Last of the Nine,”** he answered, **“and new Lord of Mordor, but now that my mind is my own again, I have no desire at all to continue Sauron’s endless war against the West. I seek peace on behalf of my people, and as a show of good faith, I do return all the horses Sauron had stolen from Rohan. And also…”** He shifted the broken spear to his other hand, unwrapped something in his lap, and held it up, glittering in the sunlight.

Elrond inhaled so sharply he almost choked, then cried, _“The Sceptre of Númenor!”_

 **“I know not how it came into Sauron’s possession,”** said the Nazgûl, as whispers exploded along the walls and through the streets, **“though given the end Númenor came to, I do not think it will take much to guess near the mark. On behalf of Mordor, I return these to their rightful owners, if you will accept them from us.”**

Again, there was another glance between Aragorn and Éomer, before the former leaned forward and said, “We will!” To one of the many soldiers nearby, he said, “Open the gate, permit him entrance - but keep a close watch.”

The man bowed and departed. As they descended from the wall, the Fellowship and their companions heard the temporary gates grind open, and the clopping of hooves on stone. They came forward to meet him, and the Orc swung down from the back of his beast, then pointed at the ground. The creature laid down at once and put its head on its paws, though it watched them all with bright eyes.

Éomer and several of his Rohirrim came forward to take the leads of the horses, which the Orc turned over without hesitation. But it wasn't only men; Éowyn was there as well. When she noticed the Orc’s eyes on her, eyebrows climbing, she said, “What is it? Have you never before seen a woman?”

 **“That is not why you caught my gaze,”** the Ringwraith answered, **“I see the fading echoes of the Witch-King’s power on you - you faced him in battle at least once. Are you also the one who slew him?”**

“I am,” she answered warily.

The Ringwraith did not seem the least bit surprised that a woman had defeated his leader in battle, saying only, **“By what name are you known?”**

“Éowyn, daughter of Éomund.”

 **“Éowyn of Rohan,”** the Gravewalker said, **“Mordor will remember your name for as long as we endure.”** Then he bowed to her as one would a lord of great power.

Then he straightened and turned to Aragorn as the man approached. He held out the Sceptre, which seemed almost to glow with an inner light. When Gandalf nodded that it was safe, the Man stepped forward and took it.

The gems distinctly flared, then settled, the Sceptre accepting him as its bearer and the Heir to the throne of Númenor. The Man sighed in relief and said, “Thank you.”

The Nazgûl nodded. **“We have many other artifacts of Gondorian origin, from the days while she still held Mordor after the War of the Last Alliance, but none as valuable or important as this. If you wish, later we will return them as well.”**

But then there was a shout through the crowd. _“Where is he?! Coming through, stand aside!”_

The Gravewalker blinked, then grinned. **“** ** _Ah_** **. I know that voice, too.”**

The crowd parted, and a woman in Ranger gear emerged into the open, a man in similar attire right behind her, with others behind _him_. She blinked too, then scowled and pointed imperiously at the Orc. _“You!”_

 **“Shorty!”** the wraith said brightly, **“I had wondered where you were, but I haven’t had time to ask your mother.”**

 _“How dare you!”_ she shouted, rushing him even as he laughed, “I was four days away from being certified! _Four days!_ And then you Fell, and Mother and Father sent me away to Gondor!”

Much to everyone’s surprise, she didn't attack the Orc but instead threw herself into his arms, wrapping him in a tight hug, an embrace the Nazgûl returned just as strong. _“I missed you, Grandfather,”_ she said into his neck, still loud enough to be heard.

**“I have missed you as well, Granddaughter.”**

“You two are _kin_?” Aragorn said, shocked. The rest of the Fellowship - and indeed, many people present - were equally surprised. No one had ever really thought about the Ringwraiths even having _friends_ , much less _family_.

 **“Not by blood,”** the Ringwraith answered.

“I am Angreth, daughter of Idril,” said the woman, leaning back to look at her king, “herself the daughter of Castamir, of House Rían.”

“Castamir of Rían? The general of Minas Ithil before her fall?” Faramir only half-asked; Idril was a distant cousin of his, as most of the noble houses of Gondor were interrelated.

“The very same,” Angreth replied, “and also the one who betrayed the city, and surrendered her to the Witch-King right before my mother’s very eyes. That was before Grandfather Fell, before he was even cursed to become one of the Nine, but it had not been that long since he had lost his own family to the dark tide of Mordor.” She looked up at the wraith. “I am told that once, when he was being what she referred to as ‘excessively protective’-”

**“ _Rude_. I was just the right amount of protective for Mordor at the time.”**

“-she said, ‘Yes, _Dad_ ,’ and he called her ‘Daughter’ in response, and then they never really stopped. And I have always called him ‘Grandfather.’”

“Likewise,” said the man with her, approaching with a wide smile. Angreth stepped back so her brother Hithaer could hug the wraith as well. There were others with them who knew the wraith as well but hung back, grinning just as wide. “It’s good to have you back.”

**“It’s good to be back.”**

“How is Mordor?” Angreth asked intently.

**“Beginning recovery. The fall of Barad-dûr was neither quiet nor easy.”**

“We’re coming back with you. We want to help.”

 **“I don’t think that-”** But they had already vanished back into the crowd with their fellows, heading off to retrieve their gear. The Nazgûl sighed loudly, then called after them, **“I’ll inform your parents then.”**

_“Yes! Do that! And tell them if they send us away again, they'll have to tie us up and drop us at the gates of Minas Tirith themselves!”_

There were cries of agreement, fading into the distance, and the Nazgûl sighed again. 

“Have they always been like that?” Pippin asked him.

 **“Oh yes,”** the Gravewalker answered dryly, **“Actually, this is** **_tame_ ** **compared to some things they’ve done. When Angreth says she was four days away from being certified, she means as one of the drake-rider corps. One of the ways some of the younger riders would prove themselves is they would jump from the backs of their drakes into the Sea of Nurnen and try to swim to shore.”**

“That’s _dangerous_!” Sam cried, pale as a sheet.

 **“Which was exactly the point. The belief was that the higher you could jump from and the further out you could make it back from, the better you were. I knew I could never actually** **_stop_ ** **them from doing it, so after the first few deaths, I mandated that no one could go completely alone. Everyone had to have a partner with them to pull them out if they looked to be struggling, even the older and more experienced riders.”**

Then Frodo perked up. “‘Drake riders’?” he repeated, “There are other people who ride them?”

**“Only about a hundred, and about the same number of drakes.”**

“There was one we saw - the one in the Morgul Vale,” the hobbit said, briefly looking at Sam before turning back to the Nazgûl, “Sméagol called her ‘the Dreadful Woman’. Do you know her?”

The Gravewalker smiled. **“I do indeed,”** he said, **“She’s mine. At first she was named after my late wife, but Sauron’s forces captured her and tortured her, and she got quite _nasty_ as a result. The Orcs took to calling her ‘the Dreadful Woman’, so that became her name. ** **_Daerwen,_** **in Gondorian Sindarin.”**

“Then you’re the one-!” Frodo quickly told everyone what had transpired in the Morgul Vale.

 **“Ah, so I** **_did_ ** **sense something,”** said the wraith, **“Daerwen’s always been unusually smart for a drake. I’m glad she had the sense to hide you, and I’m** **also** **glad you survived Mordor.”**

“We’re glad you survived as well,” the hobbit replied, Sam nodding in agreement, “From the way Sméagol spoke about you, we thought you must have been a good man once.”

That made the Nazgûl snort. **“I don’t know about** **_that_** **, but I do try.”**

Angreth, Hithaer, and their fellows returned not long after, and the Orc put his fingers to his lips. His whistle echoed strangely, and summoned up a dozen or so phantom beasts like the one he rode. Despite their spectral nature, the men and women mounted up as if they were flesh and blood, and the Orc did the same on his own living beast. **“Mordor wishes all of you well, and success in all your endeavors,”** he said to them, **“and may we someday reach a lasting peace between East and West.”**

“The same to you,” said Aragorn, “Go in peace, and may the Valar watch over you.”

The Orc bowed to him and to Éomer, and they all galloped through the gates and were gone.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THOUGHT THIS FIC WAS FINISHED?! YEAH, SO DID I!!! There should only be one more chapter, though.

Frodo was tired, among other things, and he knew that no rest on these shores - save death - would relieve him of the burden. Arwen had said that her place on the ships sailing into the Far West was open to him, but there was one last thing he wanted to do first.

Very, very few people would ever say that they actually wanted to meet a Nazgûl, and fewer still would say that it was the last thing they wanted to do before passing from the world, but that was what he wanted. He wanted to meet this “Talion”, the Gravewalker and Wind-Rider, Last of the Nine and new Lord of Mordor - he wanted to see with his own eyes that it was possible to pass into darkness and yet return to the light.

(He wanted to believe that his own soul wasn't irreparably marred by choosing to take the Ring for his own.)

At last he heard that Middle-earth was finally stable enough that the kingdoms of the west - Gondor and Rohan at least, and perhaps more - were coming together to negotiate with Mordor for lasting peace. He had long ago decided that he wanted to be there, so he sent letters to his friends in Gondor, asking if he might attend, to at least hear what was said and take the news back to the Shire, if not speak on behalf of the hobbits.

Aragorn sent an escort fit for a king to collect him, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin if they wished to come.

(Merry and Pippin did at least, and Sam consented to be dragged along.)

It was pleasant to walk the land at their leisure, no longer pursued by the Shadow in the East now banished forever from Middle-earth. They joined with Gandalf and Elrond and some of his people when they passed by Rivendell, and Celeborn and Galadriel and some of theirs when they traveled through Lothlórien, now just beginning to fade.

It was with this grand party that they came again to Gondor, and found that Gimli and Legolas had arrived in Minas Tirith as well. The Fellowship was gathered together once more, for one last time. They spent a few days telling each other of their doings since they last saw one another nearly two years ago. Then they left the city again, following the path east once more.

The Morgul Vale was no longer deeply shadowed, barely lit by the corpselight from Minas Morgul. Now she was bright and clear, and though she was still half in ruins, the city was Minas Ithil once more.

The delegation from Mordor had arrived ahead of them, to no one’s surprise, but Talion himself was not yet present. His adjutant was, though, and Idril greeted them gladly.

“It is good to see you again, Cousin,” said Faramir, embracing her warmly, “It has been many years since we last spoke.”

“Too many,” she agreed with a smile, “But please, be welcome. Minas Ithil has been made ready for you.”

As they made their way to the tower nearly scraping the sky above the city, Frodo asked her, “Where is Talion?”

“Seregost,” she answered him, “North and east of here, together with the spirit of Carnán. Tar Goroth was not content to stay sleeping in his frozen lake, so they are dealing with him again.”

“‘Tar Goroth’?” Elrond repeated with a frown, “I cannot say I have heard that name.”

“And with any luck, you never will again,” Idril replied, “He is a Balrog of the First Age. Before - everything, really - Talion and Carnán worked together to freeze him in a lake in Seregost, but now that Sauron’s clouds are gone, the area is warming, and the lake melting. There are others who have gone to support them, and hopefully this time they will put him down for good.”

“That sounds like _quite_ a tale,” said Frodo, remembering all too well how he had been able to do nothing but watch when Gandalf faced off against Durin’s Bane.

“Oh, it _is_ ,” Idril laughed, “I saw it from a distance, though I didn't know what was happening at the time. Once you are settled, I’ll gladly tell it to you.”

At the hobbit’s request, she started from the very beginning of what she knew. Talion was once a loyal Ranger of Gondor, banished to the Black Gate for killing a nobleman he caught in the act of assaulting his wife. There he rose through the ranks to become captain of the garrison - before it was slaughtered by Sauron’s Black Captains: the Tower, the Hammer, and the Hand. The Hand sacrificed him and his family - his wife and son - in an attempt to call forth the Elven Smith Celebrimbor as a wraith and use his spirit to bring Sauron back into the world early, even without the One Ring. But Talion wasn't quite dead when Celebrimbor appeared, and the Elf was able to possess _Talion_ instead. Together they were banished from death and went on a crusade against the Black Captains, killing them one by one, before turning their wrath on Sauron himself.

Over the years they had accumulated a wide variety of followers, Orcs who didn't want to follow Sauron for one reason or another, and Men who had been his slaves and the odd soldier from Gondor, and even a few dwarves and the Avari Elves who had lived in the forest of Carnán. As time continued to pass, their numbers grew greater still. Eventually, news of Minas Ithil’s struggle came to them through their network of spies and informants, and they came to their aid. Talion and Celebrimbor fought hard to protect the city and her inhabitants, but it wasn't enough; Castamir surrendered Minas Ithil to the Witch-King, and their war continued, now with even more Gondorians on their side. Each had their own agenda, their own missions and methods, but they helped each other when they could, however they could.

Idril heard as region after region fell to the Ranger and Elf-Lord’s growing army - Núrn, Cirith Ungol, Lithlad, Seregost, Gorgoroth - and their fights with Carnán against the Orc Necromancer Zog and the Balrog Tar Goroth, and with Eltariel against the Ringwraiths, until finally they marched on the Dark Tower itself.

“Only Talion, Celebrimbor, and Eltariel know what transpired that day on the bridge to Barad-dûr,” Idril said softly, “and of those, one has been missing since then, and the other two aren’t talking. All we know is that Celebrimbor was lost, trapped together with Sauron in the Great Eye, and Talion freed one of the Nine but was cursed to take his place.

“With the power of a Ringwraith behind him, Talion went and retook Minas Morgul by himself, and eventually our forces came together and never parted. We kept up the fight for as long as we could, holding as much of Mordor as we could against Sauron, until finally, about ten years before the end... Talion Fell.” She shook her head. “Without his power, we couldn’t hold Minas Morgul, so we decided to surrender the city. He ordered us to evacuate the day before it happened. You should have heard Daerwen _scream_ … and we knew. We were almost into Núrn by then, so that was how we knew he was gone.

“We retreated but continued doing what we could to sabotage Sauron, killing his troops where we could but mostly plundering and burning the fields and storehouses; he couldn't exactly build a huge army if he couldn't afford to _feed_ it. And then… the Dark Tower fell, and Talion came home.”

“What became of Celebrimbor?” Elrond asked, concerned for his “cousin”.

“We don't know; there hasn't been any sign of him since. With nothing to bind him here, maybe his spirit has passed into the West… or maybe he was destroyed together with Sauron. We just don’t know. It hasn't stopped Talion from searching for him, though.”

A cry of _“Daerwen!”_ went up outside, followed by cheers - and the _fwap_ of leathery wings like distant thunder.

They emerged to see a handful of fire drakes land in the courtyard in front of the Tower - including one half again the size of the others, red as blood, her rider in familiar black and gold armor. She lowered herself to the ground to let him off, same as the other drakes, then curled up on the stones, golden eyes taking everything in.

Talion was somehow everything and yet nothing that Frodo had expected. His armor and hooded mantle were the same as it had been two years ago, but now the hobbit could actually see his face. He looked like a Man, just a Man, but one who had been through hell. His aura was still black and fell, and he was pale, almost unnaturally so, almost corpse-gray, his skin blitzed with veins of darkness, slowly fading. But his _eyes_ \- they glowed _blue_ , bright and clear, and there was no malice in him.

There were two Elves with him, just as beautiful as their kin, one female, sharp and golden, the other male, soft and dark.

But for the second time in as many years, Elrond inhaled so sharply he almost choked. _“Ada?!”_

The male Elf winced and whipped around as if to remount his drake and depart, but Talion caught him before he could do so. **“You knew this day would come at some point,”** the Nazgûl rumbled, and the Elf’s shoulders slumped.

He turned back around, but by then Elrond had abandoned decorum and strode quickly over to pull the other Elf into a fierce hug. After a moment of surprise, the embrace was returned amidst murmurs in Quenya.

“Maglor Feanorion,” Galadriel said softly to the others, “Last surviving son of Fëanor, the legendary Elven Smith who made the Silmarils and also grandfather of Celebrimbor the Ringmaker.” Then she too stepped forward to greet her cousin - and Eltariel too, whom she had sent to Mordor so many years ago, welcoming the other Elves back among friends and family.

* * *

All sides were reasonable and genuinely sought peace, but even so it took many days to hammer out not just a peace treaty, but also trade treaties and matters of inter-realm law and other such documents and terms. Frodo found that when not in meetings, he enjoyed flipping through the books in the library and walking through the city’s still-ruined streets, watching the people. It was easy to tell the difference between the native Gondorians and those Men born in Mordor under Talion, purely because of how they interacted with the Orcs. The Gondorians were still hesitant, wary, eyeing the Orcs with badly disguised mistrust, but the Men of Mordor worked with them in easy harmony, laughing and joking and scuffling together, calling to one another in both Westron and a particular dialect of Black Speech.

Now at last it could be clearly seen: the Orcs were people too, and with Sauron banished, they were finally free to live on their own terms.

* * *

Their last night in the city, Frodo found himself wandering the streets after dark, committing as much to memory as he could. The city still glowed faintly at night, enough that he didn't need a lantern to see as he padded through the alleys and thoroughfares.

But he wasn't alone.

**“You’re up late, Master Baggins.”**

The hobbit’s head jerked up to find Talion sitting on the wall overhead, leaning up against one of the towers with Daerwen stretched out half on top of him, her great head in his lap. **“You should be resting,”** said the Ringwraith, **“You have a long journey ahead of you.”**

“It’s true I am weary,” Frodo said, “but I do not think there is any rest to be had for me. Not on the shores of Middle-earth, at least.”

Talion seemed to understand, because he nodded sadly. **“In a way, the Elves have it easy in that respect. Their rings may be a burden, same as ours, but they are more than able to bear the weight. For those of us who are mortal… carry a Ring of Power too long, and it will break something inside that will never recover.”**

Frodo nodded vigorously in agreement, and carefully climbed his way up the stones to sit by the Gravewalker, accepting a helping hand when he neared the top. “Even Sam does not understand so clearly,” he said, after he settled, “He carried the Ring for a time, yes, but only for a few moments - or so it seemed, to him and to me. Not months that seemed as years, and years before that that seemed an eternity.”

 **“It did not have time to break him down,”** the Nazgûl said quietly, **“or wear away pieces of his soul and devour them to fuel itself.”**

“Is that what yours did?”

 **“Near enough,”** he sighed, **“I did not have the option of not using my Ring, the way you did. In all my time here, Sauron never relented; it was stand and wield it to fight... or die.”**

* * *

Frodo fell asleep against the Ringwraith, and woke in his own bed, more rested than he had been in a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

The Undying Lands really were _paradise_ , in the truest sense of the word. Pain never lingered long here, and neither did darkness. Even the nights were bright and most often clear, the stars glittering overhead and the moon close and ever full.

Frodo leaned against a white stone railing and breathed deep the clean scent of fresh earth carried into Tirion on the slow night wind. The spring planting in Valinor had just finished, and the hobbit had delighted in spending days turning the soil in preparation alongside Sam and Bilbo and countless other Elves, some he knew only in passing, others only by sight, and still more that he had never met before at all. They had been laughing and singing and celebrating the whole time, and there had been dirt and mud and water fights more than once amidst all the joy of life.

Now it was done, and all that was left was to tend the fields as the plants grew and their fruits ripened. Frodo wasn't even sure he was familiar with half the things they had planted; he had been told the names before, but there was a big difference between the plant and the finished food. In addition, it had been a great many years and his Quenya was finally approaching halfway conversational, as few Elves born in Valinor knew Westron or remembered Sindarin. Still, even if he couldn't understand all of the songs being sung behind him, the happiness and bliss they conveyed were unmistakable.

Yet bit by bit he became aware of a ringing in the background, in the distance - no, not a ringing. A clanging, but not an alarm. He got up to follow, and found himself at a small smithy off in one of the side streets, away from the main thoroughfare. A tall, dark-haired Elf stood at the forge, hammering something into shape on an anvil. Even to Frodo’s untrained eye, it was clear he had the skill of a master, but the hobbit saw no great works on display to prove his worth, only normal things like hammers, chisels, knives, and nails, simple but impeccably wrought.

When the smith turned to heat the material, Frodo finally saw his face clearly in the light from the forge. He looked very like Maglor, who had long since repented his deeds of old and finally been granted leave by Eru Himself to return to Valinor. The Elf had been sad to leave Mordor, which had become something like a home to him over the decades spent there combating Sauron, but greater was his longing for the White Shores of Aman in the Far West. He had sailed with them, and sung seemingly without end until the Tower of Avallónë had risen into view above the horizon, his voice pure and honed with millennia of experience.

The more Frodo watched this smith work, the more he was convinced that this was one of Maglor’s kin, or perhaps a relative of his father Fëanor. He had an almost single minded focus for his work, and didn't notice that he was no longer alone until long after he finished, wiping away the few tiny beads of sweat that had formed during his exertion. Unlike a hobbit - or any other non-Elven race - he didn't jump or yelp when he finally spotted him, only raised an eyebrow and said in perfect if faintly archaic Westron, “Well met. I am known as Dring. What can I do for you?”

 _‘Hammer’_? What kind of a name was _that_? “Nothing at the moment,” the hobbit answered with a faint smile, “I am only watching you work, and wondering why you are here in your forge, instead of on the streets celebrating.”

The Elf sighed. “It is the same every year,” he replied, turning to put the… _thing_ he had made away, “There is nothing I didn't see last year, and nothing I won’t see next year. My time is better spent working on commissions.”

Frodo hummed in doubt but did not gainsay him.

“But who are you?” Dring asked, “I heard in passing that mortals had come to Aman, but I haven't yet had the opportunity to make your acquaintance.”

“I am Frodo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire,” he answered, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

They exchanged some other pleasantries while Dring started on another commission, before at last coming around to their families. “I am wondering if you are by chance related to Maglor Feanorion, who came West with us and some others,” Frodo said, watching the Elf closely, “You have a similar look, and his family is famed for its many skilled smiths.”

There was just the _briefest_ hesitation; if the hobbit’s attention hadn't been riveted on the Elf, he might not have seen it. “Aye, we are distant kin,” Dring replied, “but then, most Eldar are related, even in only the vaguest sense. Our lines have been a confusing tangle of intermarriages since the records began.”

“True enough,” the hobbit agreed, “It was much the same in the Shire in some ways. We hobbits are a small people, even smaller than the Eldar, and not just in body.”

That earned a brief flick of a grin.

But then Frodo heard Sam calling from him somewhere nearby, and knew that it was time to return to the celebration. He hopped down from his perch, and bade farewell to the smith.

“It has been good talking to you, Frodo Baggins of the Shire,” Dring returned, “Come back anytime.”

* * *

And Frodo did return, sometimes bringing Sam with him, but circumstances never fell right for any of the others to come meet the smith, to see if Maglor recognized his distant kin and could tell Frodo what his name _really_ was.

(But maybe he already knew. There was a thought drifting in the back of his mind, something Idril had said so many years ago - _“With nothing to bind him here, maybe his spirit has passed into the West.”_ )

For a long time, at least a decade or longer, nothing came of it, until finally the hobbit became something like friends with the Elf, friendly enough to invite him along to one of their excursions to the sea. Though he was much more at home in Tirion and the fields beyond, Frodo couldn't deny that there was just something _refreshing_ about the salty air and cool breeze.

Bilbo and Sam - and Gimli, now that he and Legolas had come (along with a red-haired she-Elf, who had vanished into the Halls of Aulë and not come out again) - got roped into rounding out a group of young Teleri Elves’ teams for some four-way sport played with ten balls on a flat spot of sand not too far from the water. Frodo wasn’t really clear on the rules, so he sat back with Dring and watched them play.

But as the day went on, he became aware that Dring wasn't really watching the game. Instead, he was looking east to the horizon with a faintly grief-stricken look on his face. He called the smith’s name, but it took several tries to get his attention, and when he finally looked at the hobbit, a single diamond tear rolled down his cheek but was quickly wiped away. “What is it?” Dring asked without the slightest waver in his voice.

“Something is clearly wrong,” the hobbit returned, “You look east as if it is your death, and we have known one another for years but I have never once seen you weep - or any of the Eldar, for that matter, but this is about you. What ails you, my friend?”

Dring shook his head. “Nothing that anyone can fix, so do not let it trouble you. Only memories of my time in Arda.”

“I know the feeling.” Frodo too looked east, back in the general direction of Middle-earth. “Even so, a burden shared is a burden halved.”

That pulled a soft laugh from the Elf. “Not this one.”

The hobbit turned back to look at the other, who now had his legs pulled up to his chest, his arms clasped around. “What wound is so great that you refuse to let it heal? That you keep ripping it open even here in the bliss of Valinor?”

“It is not a wound I _received_ , but one I _dealt_ ,” Dring answered, only half aware that he was speaking as he buried his face in his knees, “I - betrayed a great many people to their deaths… and one in particular above them all, who in no way deserved it. He had already lost so much to the darkness - his wife and son, all his friends - and I only made it worse before leaving him to die.”

_Gotcha._

“I see,” said Frodo, “and this _one above all_ \- his name wouldn't happen to be _Talion_ , would it?”

Celebrimbor went taut as a wire and struggled to master himself before finally looking up again, his face pale. “You… know about…?”

“He _lived_ , Celebrimbor,” the hobbit said gently, “Not a happy life by any means, but he lived. Though he never spoke of how you were lost.”

“‘Lost’?” The Elf let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Is that how he worded it? I was _lost_?”

“That’s how everyone else did, and so far as I heard, he never said anything at all to correct them.”

The smith let his head fall again with another biting laugh. “I was never _lost_ ,” he said, “Not _physically_ at least. But what story did they tell you?”

So Frodo told him the same thing Idril had told him so many years ago, right down to how the Elf-wraith was never found after the fall of the Dark Tower, though it hadn't stopped Talion from searching. While he was pleased that… _whatever_ had happened on the bridge to Barad-dûr had not been the end of the Ranger, hearing that he had fallen into darkness, had become one of the Nine - even though he later returned - only seemed to compound the Elf’s grief. “That was my fault,” he whispered, staring blankly off into the distance, diamond tears rolling slowly down his face, “I wasn’t _lost_ , wasn’t _stolen_ by Sauron, as they seem to imagine. No. I was blinded by my anger and hatred and greed, and when he wouldn't do as I ordered, when he set that Ringwraith free rather than bend him to our will, I abandoned him. I held shut the wounds that the Black Hand dealt in that ritual…” Here he reached up to touch his throat. “...and when I took our Ring and left him, they opened again. I left him to die on that bridge. Him and all those who followed us. I thought… I don't know what I thought. To face Sauron on my own? That together with my aunt’s Blade and Light, I would be enough to overcome him, when _Talion_ had been the source of our strength? When I made the New Ring to be used by _him_ and no one else, not even myself?” He let his head fall again. “I was a fool,” he choked out, “I was a blind fool, and it cost us both absolutely _everything_.”

Frodo didn't know what to say. Though they were both Ring Bearers, he had only met the Man a few short times before sailing, so he couldn't even begin to guess at what he had been thinking, why he had refused to speak of what happened to make him put on the Ring, to begin his long, slow slide into shadow… and why he had kept silent even after he returned to the light. If anyone had had the right to speak, it had been him - but he hadn't.

Finally, the hobbit said, “I do not know why he never told anyone the truth of what happened - I only met him a scant handful of times. But I _do_ know that he never spoke ill of you.”

Celebrimbor huffed out a short laugh. “He is a better man than I.”

“Of course he is. He’s actually a Man, and you’re an Elf.”

That pulled a real chuckle from the Ringmaker. But then-

“Mr. Frodo!”

The hobbit looked up as Sam raced over to them. Bilbo, Gimli, and the Elves had abandoned their game and seemed to be fishing for their lunches, but that wasn't what the other hobbit was calling his attention to. “What is that?” he asked, pointing out over the water, “That isn’t any seabird I’ve ever seen, that’s for sure.”

At this distance it seemed completely white, almost like a gull of some kind, but it wasn't flying at all like one - not wheeling and diving, only aiming straight as an arrow for the shore.

It was getting bigger, too, still some ways out but already too big to be any seabird Frodo knew, either. And the details were starting to resolve out of the blur of white; on its wings close to its body and on its belly there were brown markings, bands of some kind, and on its back was another blotch of brown and a smear of glinting metal…

…of black and gold.

_No. Not markings or bands. A harness._

Frodo got to his feet. “That’s no seabird, Sam,” he said, a wide grin blossoming on his face, “ _That’s a fire drake._ ”

Celebrimbor shot to his feet at once, barely seeming to move through the space between. One second he was sitting, and the next he was standing, staring out over the water and seeming to experience every possible emotion at once. At last, he gasped, _“Talion?!”_


	6. Chapter 6

_Talion knew at once that he was dreaming, yet never before had his dreams been so clear and bright._

_He stood on the road to a city he had never seen before, built onto a hill and of white stone like Minas Tirith, but she was not the rising tiers to the palace on high. Instead, there were many buildings of varying heights, every one artful and open, with streams and rivers and waterfalls running throughout, with many elegant bridges and walkways in the slenderest of arches._

_He knew at once, without knowing how he knew, that this city was built in the fashion of Númenor before her fall._

_He blinked, and then there were two people coming towards him on the road. His heart began to pound even before he consciously recognized them, but his feet felt anchored to the earth. He couldn't run to meet them, only wait for them to come to him even as tears rolled down his face._

_“Ioreth. Dirhael.”_

_It was more than a thousand years since he had last seen them alive. Ioreth was as beautiful as her last day alive, her eyes soft and warm and free of pain and fear. Dirhael looked a little older, a man in his prime, the confidence and strength and adulthood he had never lived to reach._

_The moment they were in arms’ reach, they all embraced. “I have missed you, Talion,” Ioreth whispered softly._

_“And I you,” Talion answered, “More than anything._ Both _of you.”_

_Dirhael grinned._

_The Man looked at them both, smiling at him. “Am I dead?”_

_That made their smiles fall. “No,” Dirhael said finally, “and you never will be.”_

_For a moment, everything stopped - and then resumed. “_ What _?!” Talion gasped, “_ Never _?! I am not one of the Elves - my life is sustained by the New Ring! If I but remove it-!”_

_He made as if to do just that, but Ioreth laid a hand on his own. He went still at once, looking into her eyes and seeing there the same grief that he now felt. “It is the Will of the One,” she said, tears of her own beginning to well up, “You are sundered from the Fate of Men. He spoke to you once before: ‘Death is not your destiny today, Talion Wind-Rider.’”_

_All his breath left him at once, and he fell to his knees. His wife and son did so as well and pressed close, their arms going tight around him - almost as tight as his own around them. He knew what this was now._

_This was goodbye, more final than their last._

_As if she knew his thoughts, Ioreth pulled back just enough so she could tilt his head up to look him in the eye. “This is not goodbye_ forever _, Talion,” she said, “but it is for a good,_ long _while - until the return of Morgoth and the Last Battle. Then, even the least of the race of Men shall be recalled to live at last in true peace when the world is made anew.”_

 _Dirhael nodded in assent and said, “This also is the Will of the One: The Old World has passed away, and soon Middle-earth and all her lands will have no more need of even_ you _, Wind-Rider. Gather whatever you think you will want or need, and go West. The Straight Road is open to you.”_

* * *

Ithildin was not the last of the fire drakes, but their numbers had been growing perilously thin for many years. Yet all the new technology from the so-called "Modern Age" was a boon to him; Talion didn’t fully understand it, but with some things called “DNA extraction” and “genetic modification” and “cloning”, a number of labs across the globe and their scientists produced healthy, fertile eggs for him, ones that were not closely related enough to be a problem. When he went west, he could continue breeding his beloved drakes in the Undying Lands, where they would not fade.

The eggs were packed into Ithildin’s saddlebags with the utmost care, and she seemed to understand the importance of what was being done, for she did not move so much as a centimeter even with all these strangers climbing all over and around her. She was a descendant of Daerwen and had very much inherited her ancestor’s later temperament, which made it all the more impressive.

Then, at last, after almost a decade of preparation, Talion stood in the ruins of the Grey Havens and looked west toward the setting sun. He would have sworn before the altar of any god the world over that now he could see it; a thin but impassable veil had been pulled back, and the sun which now shone on him was not the same one which had risen that morning.

“You truly must go?”

The ex-Nazgûl looked back.

The king of the Reunited Kingdom stepped up next to him, looking impeccable as always in his charcoal gray suit. Even though he was now mostly king in name only, Gondor and Arnor having transitioned to a constitutional monarchy long ago, Gladhron was still greatly loved by all his subjects, as most of his ancestors had been.

As Talion was. He had been Lord of Mordor for so long that many had forgotten there ever was a Lord before him, even though Sauron had ruled for many, _many_ thousands of years more. The War of the Ring was ancient history, and the Ages before that more myth than fact.

The world had moved on.

“Yes,” Talion said finally, looking back to the sun sinking toward the horizon, “It is the Will of the One. I am no longer needed, and so I must depart.”

Gladhron sighed. “I will miss you, my friend. As will we all.”

“And I will miss you.” Talion’s gaze briefly went sly. “Although I will not miss you throwing up on me.”

“For heavens’ sake, I was two! You need to let that go!”

The Man laughed and stepped forward, the king also opening his arms. They embraced tightly, then stepped back. “Go in peace, my friend,” said Gladhron, “ _Pruzah wundunne_ , and wind be with you.”

“And also with you,” Talion answered, swinging up onto Ithildin’s back. He made a _tsst_ noise to get her attention, and she got to her feet even as the king stepped back. The ex-Nazgûl took up the reins, even though he didn't really need to, and at his signal, she launched herself into the sky, streaking for the horizon.

The sun set before them, but Talion still felt it the moment they passed beyond the walls of Arda. It was like flying through the briefest bank of fog, just a breath of damp, chill air, before it was gone as fast as it had come.

Night descended, and the stars came out, seeming brighter and clearer and closer than in Middle-earth, and in the distance he saw Eärendil’s ship Vingilótë, the Silmaril glowing bright at its prow. The sea below them faded away, leaving them flying through space itself, though gravity still kept them anchored below.

(He had been out to space once. _Just_ once. The lack of gravity had been _thoroughly_ unsettling, but he’d still been in awe of it all, watching Arda spin below, together with Anar and Isil in their near eternal dance.)

Vingilótë vanished after a time, but the sea returned below. Talion knew at once that they’d crossed over into Aman; the air was sweet and refreshing in ways beyond anything in Middle-earth, and he could faintly taste the salt spray, hear the distant cry of the gulls. The sun rose behind them, hours passing, but Ithildin never seemed to tire; perhaps the air refreshed her, too, and lent strength and endurance to her wings.

The sun continued to climb as they crossed the Shadowy Seas, the Enchanted Isles flickering away below them, there one second and gone the next. At last there was a distant shimmer of land, and the Tower of Avallónë rising above Tol Eressëa. But he turned Ithildin away to the more distant shore of Aman itself, thinking to find somewhere quiet, away from the Eldar, where they could land, get their bearings, and then approach in their own time.

That decision was taken out of his hands when he glimpsed two small figures on the shore, one of whom was waving up at him. He pulled the barest touch of power from the New Ring, and his vision sharpened. It was Frodo and Sam, looking better than he had ever seen them, bright smiles on their faces, and with them was an Elf with long dark hair and flame-blue eyes-

Talion’s eyes went wide.

_It couldn’t be._

But it _was_.

Ithildin sensed his will and brought them in at once to land. Talion nearly threw himself out of her saddle, lunging for the Elf.

It was clear the Elf had been expecting to be hit, and had intended to let him do it. He was _not_ expecting to be briefly checked to make sure he was real before being pulled into a fierce embrace.

More than a thousand years had passed since he had last seen Celebrimbor. In the early years, he had _raged_ over the other’s betrayal, ripping down entire _mountains_ over this Elf that had shared his body and soul for nearly a decade before leaving him to die. Yet when all his anger was finally spent, he had mourned his apparent death, grieved his loss even more than his own family. He had loved his wife and son more than his own life, but Celebrimbor had been a part of him for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be alone in his own flesh.

“You _ass_ ,” Talion said on a shuddering breath that he refused to call a sob, “You’ve been _missed_.”

And after a moment, his embrace was returned, the Elven smith hugging him back just as tight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pruzah wundunne: Dovahzul, from Skyrim, "Safe Travels"


End file.
